


Only the Ruthless

by DiamondsAndGold



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: F/F, F/M, Fic In Progress, First fic! Please be kind!, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, alcoholism (minor character)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-28 23:22:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8466883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiamondsAndGold/pseuds/DiamondsAndGold
Summary: Ryan Ross has been in love with Brendon Urie since he was fourteen years old. He's a sucker for Brendon's velvety voice, charisma and innocent good looks. Of course, they've never met. Brendon is an international star and Ryan is a poor kid from a backwards city. But when Ryan finally comes face-to-face with his idol, what transpires will change his life forever and lead him on an epic quest for revenge.   I hope y'all like this, please leave me some comments!





	

 

**_Prologue_ **

  
  
  


**_(7/6/01, 5:50 PM)_ **

 

_Ryan doesn’t believe in God._

 

_Of course, it’s hard to believe in a supreme being when your cheap shirt is clinging to the skin of your back with two hour’s worth of sweat, the heady Vegas heat is filled with the voices of bickering boys, and there’s a dangerously prominent throb beginning at your temples._

_“I don’t understand why we can’t just play the bridge the original way,” Spencer moans exhaustedly, his energy level seemingly waning. It figures; he’s been at it with Trevor for the last quarter of an hour. Spencer, a solid boy of about five feet and eleven inches, has a height and weight advantage on Trevor, and Ryan can see how this will play out if Spencer doesn’t get his way. Despite his now clearly-defined headache, he decides it’s time to intervene._

_“I say we compromise,” he declares, trying to pitch his voice at a steady timbre. He is, after all, the frontman of this band. It’s his job to keep morale up. “Spence, we’ll play the original bridge. And,” he continued, cutting across Trevor, whose mouth had opened in protest, “We’ll add in that riff that Trev improvised the other day. It can come right after the chorus.” Trevor shot Ryan a tight smile, appreciative but lacking warmth. That was the kind of boy Trevor was: polite, but impersonal._

_“That’s all well and good, Ry, but there’s one small problem. That guitar riff is shit,” Spencer smirks, levelling a withering glare at Trevor, who retorts, “Oh yeah? Play something better, then, Smith. Right now.” When Spencer gets a flustered look in his pale blue eyes, Trevor scoffs. “Oh yeah, that’s right! I forgot! You can’t play guitar. Or bass. Or piano. You’re tone-deaf, so good luck singing. You’re constantly making up petty little problems with the way I write, or play, even though I’m better than you’ll ever be. You act all tough with your big bad drum set, but you’re nothing but a mopey little pansy. It’s honestly a good thing your dad left. At least this way, he doesn’t have to see how much of a fucking loser you are.”_

_There’s a silence that you could cut with a butter knife. Spencer doesn’t yell, doesn’t hit. He looks down at his battered sneakers, and he breathes. In and out, in and out. Trevor’s eyes widen as he realizes he’s made a mistake, but when he goes to touch Spencer’s shoulder, to console him in a soft voice, Spencer lets out a choked cry, like he’s been punched in the stomach. He turns slowly around, and leaves Trevor’s garage, his head still hanging._

_Ryan heaves a heavy sigh, wishing he had the energy to follow Spencer. The boy is one of his best friends. They’ve spent hours together, talking about girls, drugs, death, poetry, and more girls. Hours spent in Spencer’s kitchen, or Ryan’s bedroom. At least until Ryan’s father knocks on the door with the flat side of his third bottle, letting Spencer know it’s time to go home. If Ryan weren’t so achingly tired, so soul-deep exhausted, he would chase the boy, soothe him, let him know that Trevor’s words were spiteful and cruel but untruthful. But there’s no semblance of life left in his bones, and he decides in an instant that it’s time to go home._

_He turns to Trevor, who’s still standing there with a regretful expression on his narrow face._

_“I had no idea,” Trevor mumbles. “No idea that I had that in me, that was awful, I’m so sor-”_

_He’s interrupted by Ryan’s fist colliding into his nose, breaking it in three places._

_“I don’t care,” Ryan posits wearily through Trevor’s howls of pain. “Sorry, Trev. Deal with your own shit. I’m going home.”_

 

_…………………………………………………………………………………………………………_

 

_(ii)_

 

**_(7/6/01, 7:23 PM)_ **

 

_"Ryan, I thought I told you not to come to the dinner table when you’ve been smoking.”_

 

_“Why not? Dad’s not here, is he?”_

 

_He turns his inquisitive gaze up to his stepmother, who’s looking at him with narrowed eyes. The way her blond hair falls around her face reminds him of Cinderella for a moment, and he laughs dizzily, the weed permeating his senses._

_“Sorry Catherine. I thought today was April 20th. I was just celebrating.Turns out I’m a few months late.” He winks at his sister, who giggles even though there’s no way she knows what he’s referencing. Maya’s only just surpassed the age of nine, after all._

_“Ryan.” Catherine glares, though Ryan knows he can see the vague hint of a smile playing around her rosy lips. “Just. Please. Don’t smoke that stuff. Okay, honey? I don’t know where you’re getting it from, it could be spiked with... Oh, I don’t know...Roofies or something.”_

_Ryan bursts out laughing. Everything is so deliciously funny when you’re high. “Cat, there’s no roofies in my marijuana. I promise. I buy it from Pete, he’s a good friend. I trust him.” Catherine nods, but her eyes soften a little._

_“Please be careful, Ry. We really do love you, you know. Me and George.” She casts her eyes downwards, and Ryan can’t help but feel an ache in his chest._

_“Has he...you know...again?” Ryan forces out, and Catherine’s eyes fly upward, then over to Maya. “Not in front of your sister,” she hisses, and Ryan’s mouth snaps shut. That’s a yes, then. He sighs again, for seemingly the millionth time that evening, and wonders where the bruises are this time. Perhaps her thighs or her breasts, somewhere covert that can be covered with her clothing. Ryan knows the feeling, covering hurt with silk. He reaches across the table, offering his hand. She takes it, tears welling in her eyes, and something in Ryan’s heart snaps. He thinks of calling Spencer, wonders if Trevor plans on ever speaking to him again. He doubts it._

_Catherine leans forward, bringing Ryan’s hand up to kiss it. He smiles, his entire body warming up. Maya leans over as well, wanting to be part of the impromptu affection fest, and presses her soft cheek onto Ryan’s hand. George doesn’t hit her, Ryan thinks. But he could. He could._

 

_…………………………………………………………………………………………………………….._

 

_(iii)_

 

**_(7/6/01, 9:04 PM)_ **

 

_Ryan’s door falls shut with a heavy clunk. His father won’t be home until one, will most likely sleep on the couch until Catherine has the courage to rouse him around eleven the next morning. She will most likely escape any harm, retreating to her bedroom to prepare for work while George shuffles his newspaper and tries to ignore his pounding hangover headache. Ryan will be long gone, off to an ill-paying but necessary job._

_He collapses onto his bed, devoid of a box-spring since it had broken last year, marvelling at the evening’s events. He can’t believe that Trevor’s mother still hasn’t called Catherine in a storm of tears to report what her degenerate son had done to her baby. He considers himself lucky, wondering if there is, after all, a higher power. He chuckles. He’s clearly still a little high._

_Ryan’s eyes scan his bedroom; lighting on his shabby wooden door. He considers his good fortune, the knowledge that his father will never enter there. One thing he knows, one thing that’s constant in the churning mess of his fifteen-year life, is that when his father needs him, he knocks. He does not enter. He has never entered. Catherine isn’t so lucky. Ryan can’t imagine having to share a room with George, let alone a bed. He guesses they sleep on opposite sides, perhaps sometimes waking up in each other’s arms by accident. He expects that George would enjoy this, maybe he’d even bashfully find it romantic, but Catherine would be repulsed, spending an extra-long time in the shower to wash him off of her. That woman deserves the world, Ryan thinks, his mind still spinning a little from the drugs and the exhaustion._

_He reaches over the side of his bed. It’s time, he thinks: time for his guilty pleasure. He deserves it, goddamnit. His fingers find paper, and his heart jumps a little. It’s almost ridiculous how excited he gets from a simple magazine, and it’s not even anything erotic. Well, some could argue that it is. Ryan knows it’s something else, something even better. He pulls the magazine out from under the bed, his eyes squinting a little at the loud, bright cover art. It’s a music magazine, a relatively recent issue of_ Kerrang! _and, though it’s a little pathetic, Ryan has every single page memorized. He flips quickly to 27, slouching back on his pillows and letting out a little noise of relief: his first unburdened sigh of the day, he notices. He shuts his eyes, just momentarily, savoring the feeling of relaxation, before opening them once again and finding himself face to face with Brendon Urie._

 _God, where does he even begin with Brendon Urie? He believes it started with Pete, last year, when they were both quiet, skittish freshman._ Dude, look at this! _Pete had shoved an album under Ryan’s nose during first period homeroom, twitching with excitement._ What? _Ryan had countered, his eyes still a little bleary in the early morning._ Dude, Panic! at the Disco! _Pete was practically trembling._ Their shit is tight, man! And, OH! Get this! The lead singer, he’s only eighteen years old! That’s only four years older than us! _Ryan had perked up then, a lead singer of a band only eighteen?_ OH! And also? _Pete had looked over his shoulder, as if to ensure there were no eavesdroppers nearby._ He wears MAKEUP. He’s a boy! AND HE WEARS MAKEUP! _He and Ryan had giggled conspiratorially, as Ryan pictured an extremely feminine boy with mascara and a wig and a frilly dress._

_Now, as Ryan once again stares at Brendon Urie’s glossy picture, he feels the familiar confusion rise in him again. It’s a sort of exercise, this confusion, the strange spell Brendon had over him. A nightly ritual in which he ponders, well...things. He’s never met Brendon (God, was that a fantasy), but there’s something so magnetic about him. Aside from his rich, full voice and alluring music (Did Ryan ever love Panic! At the Disco’s music, it climbs inside you like a spirit and makes you feel things you didn’t know you could feel), Brendon emits a very specific energy, an aura that’s almost feminine despite his strong, toned body, and Ryan likes it. Ryan likes it a lot. He isn’t gay, he was sure. He likes girls quite a lot, spends endless amounts of time plotting with Spencer and Pete about how to get one for makeout purposes. And yet, here he is again, staring at nineteen-year-old Brendon Urie’s full, plump lips, angular nose, and soulful eyes and he likes it. A lot._

_Snapping himself out of the familiar reverie, he lets his eyes move to the article. Brendon is charming on the paper, and Ryan senses an old soul within him. He talks of his favorite books, of his family, of his musical influences, but that isn’t the part that Ryan is interested in. Ryan’s eyes move to the very last question, the one that he has read countless times, highlighted, circled in ballpoint pen, and even transcribed into drawing that’s currently hanging on his wall:_

**Q: Thanks so much for hanging with Kerrang! You know we love you here (laughs). Just one more question: How would you say your start as a small-town band has influenced your current recording and touring process? Has it made you a better performer, starting small rather than being immediately thrust into the spotlight?**

**A: (Laughs) Of course it’s made me a better performer! I can’t thank those people who showed up to our shitty shows back in ‘98 enough. We grew so much in those years, the challenge of being a band of sixteen-year-old kids who don’t have a clue what the fuck they’re doing is why I am where I am today. Awful garage bands with stupid names can make it big. They can. If they’re willing to work for it.**

_Ryan grins, and it touches every part of his face. He has Brendon’s smart-alecky response memorized like the magazine’s pages, and though it’s a little boyish and cocky, it’s the only reason he hasn’t put his three-piece lineup out of its misery. Brendon started just where he did, Ryan has proof of it right here in the December ‘00 issue of_ Kerrang!

 

_Ryan has not, and probably never will, meet this beautiful boy with the big eyes and the heartbreaker smile, but when he makes it, when he makes music and means it, he will know he owes Brendon Urie everything._

 

 _Ryan falls asleep with the article still clutched in his hand, and Panic!’s song_ Hurricane _playing in his head._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading this! If you came here from my Tumblr, I love ya! I have the first chapter complete, and I will upload it soon. Quick note: this is rated Teen and Up for now, but there will be naughtiness later, so keep that in mind :)
> 
> ALSO! As I mentioned above, comments are always appreciated, this is my first fic and I would love y'all's thoughts. <3


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